The Safe Road to Telephonic Independence
by Megawacky Max
Summary: How can two perfect opposites have a common problem? How can they solve it together? It won't be easy, but these two girls will work hard on the Safe Road to Telephonic Independence!
1. The banning

–**o–**

**The Safe Road To Telephonic Independency**

**A story by  
****Megawacky Max**

–**o–**

**Author's Note:  
**I wish to thank my friend **Tronkan Trok**, who suggested this idea after quite a strange chat about a quite stranger dream. These things happen… don't be surprised.

Also, and as I always do, I'd wish to thank my beloved **Eve13**, who wasted some time of her existence to read and correct my sometimes lousy grammar. Thanks to you, Evie. ˆˆ

–**o–**

**Prologue**

It wasn't just another morning in Hillwood. It should have been, but it wasn't. Fate was setting the scene for a mischievous play where two not-so opposites would have to join forces. A collision of characters, a set of options, and only one goal to reach:

_The Safe Road to Telephonic Independency_.

–**o–**

**Chapter 1  
****The banning**

The sun stuck out its rays, showing samples of what would be a hot day. It had been a while since it last rained; not even clouds could be observed in the far distance. The city of Hillwood awakened from an uncomfortably sweaty night.

Life was based on the movement of the morning city critters: paperboys started their routes, shopkeepers opened their shops, the first vehicles transported drowsy workmen to their drowsy workplaces. One normal day.

Or maybe not…

Harvey the mailman waited at the post office for his morning pack of letters. Little did he know he'd be a small yet instrumental cog in the succession of events that would take place that day. One tiny, harmless little cog, and his innocent mail route would start up a whole, complex mechanism fated for disaster.

Harvey took his pack of envelopes and dumped it in his mailbag. One of those cards was addressed to Mr. Big Bob Pataki. Harvey didn't find that interesting at all; he was only interested on achieving his personal goal: to deliver mail and get out of the heat.

The tiny, little cog representing Harvey began to spin. It was the beginning of the end.

–**o–o–o–**

The neighborhood at large was visually the same. Only a deeper observation would have shown the great changes that took place inside its buildings. The structures hadn't changed… the tenants... _had_.

For instance, that purple building, home of the Pataki family, whose inhabitants were minutes away from suffering a big change in their monetary structure. The members of the Pataki family had not changed much.

Big Bob Pataki, authoritative head of a beeper company, had earned a few extra pounds and lost a few more hairs, but his personality remained as materialist as possible.

Miriam Pataki, the clueless mother with a drinking problem, was now under treatment in an A.A. group. She had improved a lot since those dark years, and now replaced alcohol with tomato juice. Along with the hobby of gardening, her health and mood was improving day to day.

Olga Pataki, the older of the Pataki sisters, graduated from University and was currently balancing her passions between acting, book writing, and her job in a small community library on a neighbor city, where she resided up to the present.

And then there was Helga Geraldine Pataki…

Reaching her current seventeen years was an odyssey for the girl. Helga was aware of the idea that everybody was born into the world with a purpose, and was almost convinced the purpose of ninety percent of the whole world was to toss sticks and stones all over her Path. Helga had lived it all in those few years of her existence, and when she reached the seventeen marker she felt like forty. Maybe more.

Her family loved her. Of course they didn't hate her. The problem was they only loved her when they didn't ignore her, and that happened once in a while. Perhaps too often once in a while. She never found much contention, there.

Her friends kept a respectful fear toward her. Her fists were known where there were two or more persons in a fight. To insult her meant to sign a Last Will, because all those feelings her family didn't know how to express, Helga released them in protecting her friends and, at the same time, protecting herself from said protected friends. The girl had become almost a shadow in the neighborhood.

She wasn't mean. Fine, deep inside of her; very, very deep inside of her; Helga was sensitive, careful, and willing to help. That is, of course, if anyone had been able to reach such a deep spot in her heart and pull out the best of her. It was known of only one person who could do that. Only one among thousands had learned to unveil the complicated existence of Helga Pataki, see in her soul, comprehend her actions and, from time to time, make her a happy woman.

But Arnold was no longer with them.

Helga felt sad whenever she thought of her beloved. Arnold had moved with his parents when he was fifteen, exactly five years after having found them in the depths of a Central American jungle; an experience of which all his friends, involuntary participants of the search, had been part of. Especially Helga.

To see Arnold depart was too hard for Helga. Along with him had gone all the contention a boyfriend could give, and those dark feelings resurged to take over her soul. However, Helga never lost hope. She knew for a fact that just because he had left didn't mean he wouldn't come back, and every now and then she phoned his home, all the way down in Central America, and told to him all her dark times. And someday, she thought, she could leave home and go live with him, away from her family and her problems.

Sometimes she was depressed at seeing her friends. Most of them had someone to love. Phoebe and Gerald… Harold and Patty… Nadine and Sid… No, it was hard to see them happy next to their loves, while she…

_No_.

Helga laughed, though nervously. She shouldn't think on that. She had her love. The only difference was he was thousands of miles away. But well, it was better than nothing.

What the heck, she thought, life is not bad. It was summer vacation, she was going to the swimming today and she would phone Arnold that very night. No, life was not bad at all.

So she quit thinking, got out of bed, took a refreshing morning shower, changed to fresh and cozy clothes and walked downstairs for breakfast, filled up with a happiness she hadn't felt in a long while.

And all that happiness became dust just before reaching the dinning room.

It is known sound is the sequential movement of colliding molecules starting from an emitter and arriving to a receptor. _This_ had been like an earthquake of molecules starting from an emitter and colliding with everything else in a radius of two miles. The sound was deep, powerful, and nastily prolonged. It sounded, more or less, like this:

"_HEEEEEELLLLLLLGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_!"

Helga froze in the act of putting her foot on the last step on the staircase. _Shoot_, she thought, this can't be any good.

It wasn't. Big Bob Pataki had learned, at last, the name of her second daughter. And he still called her "Olga". But when the reason was anger, "Helga" propelled out with the power of a champagne cork, and the problem with corks like that is, if one isn't cautious about them, they can end up hitting anybody in the eye.

In a simpler way, Big Bob Pataki's yell could be easily summarized in a simple explanation: Olga, good; Helga, bad.

"_Helga_, come here right _now_!" the Almighty Lord of the Beepers growled.

Helga sighed. So much for happiness. Now let's see what the ogre wants...

Upon walking into the dining room she saw Miriam and Bob having breakfast. Miriam was unusually attentive, and her expression quickly classified the future problem into the _Run For Your Life_ category. Bob, on the other hand, was on his feet, seemingly attempting to ignite the paper in his hand with a glare of sheer wrath. Helga was sure he could have achieved it, if only his eyes hadn't focused toward her at the last minute.

"What is the meaning of this, young lady?" Bob shook the paper in the air.

Helga's eyes followed the brief movement warily and answered: "It means you can still move your arm."

What the heck, she thought, if I'm going to have a hard time then at least I'll have my fun before that.

"Let's see if you can explain this, since you're so smart," Bob said, placing the paper on the table with such delicacy the breakfast dishes jumped in what was an unofficial world-record.

Helga carefully positioned herself so she would be out of rage range but also able to read, not the paper on the table, but the opened envelope on the opposite end of it. It was from the phone company.

Helga closed her eyes shut. _Shoot_! she thought. I went too far again. Don't let it be that much… don't let it be that much… _don't let it be that much_…

Helga opened her eyes.

She looked down…

… to the paper on the table.

Her world shattered in a million pieces.

–**o–o–o–**

Let's move for a moment the focus of this story. Let's travel immediately to the bedroom of another lady about to suffer a similar commotion like Helga Pataki's, and who also happens to be the second protagonist of this story.

There you see her, laying face-down on her wide king-size bed with elegant posts and curtains. She still wears her expensive Caprini pajamas.

Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was one of the few people in the whole high school who would never worry about any topic directly linked to money. Her parents had increased the already-incredible wealth of the family fortune after a couple of well-aimed movements in the stock market. Rhonda had a bank account of her own in the city's bank, as well as Student's Credit Card and a prospective Platinum _MasherCard_ for her eighteenth birthday, when she would be considered adult enough to use it wisely.

Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was a happy girl. Materialist, sarcastic, preppy, pompous, schizophrenically elegant… but happy.

Until today.

For now, she rolled on the comfy mattress while she laughed and expressed a jocular opinion in a perfect Spanish.

"Oh, _querido_, eso se oye tan genial," she said to the receptor on the other end of the line. Her internet friends used to phone her from time to time, but Rhonda was the one who really takes advantage of the marvels of technology on long-distance communication at its best.

From the other end of the line a Spanish, rather Argentinean, voice made a sympathetic comment. Rhonda laughed and rolled again, hanging her head off the edge of the bed.

Her father was at the doorframe; upside-down, or at least from Rhonda's perspective.

"Uhm, te llamaré más tarde, querido," she said, ending the communication and sitting upright.

Rhonda had always harbored a deep respect toward her parents; if the passing years changed anything of that attitude it was the fact she now took her time before paying attention to them. That didn't mean she didn't love them with all her heart, but, after all, she was nearly an adult in her own eyes. So she pretended she was stretching, got off the bed, and walked gracefully to her make-up desk. Rhonda looked at her father's reflection as her hand moved from lipstick to blush to a disguised bottle of zit concealer.

"Father, I'll ask you to knock first before walking in," she said, grabbing a brush and proceeding to the primordial task of ever morning – demonstrating to the world how beautiful and fascinating she was.

"I knocked, Princess," she heard her father say, "but it seemed you were quite absorbed in your conversation with… what was his name? Roberto?"

"_Maximiliano_," Rhonda corrected. "Roberto has a _Mexican_ accent," she added, as if her father would listen to all her conversations.

There was a moment of silence, vaguely interrupted by the gentle sliding of the brush through Rhonda's short hair. The girl had already tried to let her hair grow longer, but it took her hours to wash it properly. There were always missed spots, too. She preferred her hair short and controllable; besides, that way she could show off her fabulous earrings _du jour_.

"Father? You're still here. Is something wrong?"

"Uhm… Princess? Your mother and I..." he paused, then resumed: "Your mother and I would like to speak to you."

Rhonda didn't show any surprise.

"Of course, father. I will go downstairs for breakfast in a few minutes."

Her father nodded and left, gently closing the door. Rhonda smiled at herself, ready to put her marvelously expensive earrings on. She opened a little bin and was almost blinded by the gleam of hundreds of models carefully arranged, separated, and organized. Her index finger calmly scanned the rows of earrings, tying to select one with an exquisitely manicured fingernail. At last she found a beautiful pair of earrings with minuscule sapphires arranged in the shape of a "smiley", a special request her father asked to a jeweler in honor of his little princess' sweet sixteen.

Rhonda checked her immaculate reflection once more, this time meticulously. She agreed with herself there was no one else in the entire World that was as perfectly perfect as she was, and then proceeded downstairs to the dinning room for breakfast.

Her parents were already there, and from the moment Rhonda entered she could feel something bad floating in the air. The television was off; her mother never lost the morning news. And her father wasn't reading the Business section in the morning paper. He hadn't even _opened_ the newspaper.

The only thing opened was an envelope, apparently from the phone company.

Rhonda proceeded to ignore all that and had a seat on her chair. In front of her waited a delicious French breakfast that would make a novice choke on the first rich bite. Luckily, Rhonda was a gourmet.

She tried to eat, but the weight of the stares in her parents' eyes made her pause. She took a napkin and cleaned her lips in a delicate fashion.

"Oh, yes… Father, Mother, did you wish to talk to me?"

They exchanged a glance, which made Rhonda tremble within. She knew they only did that whenever there was bad news.

"Sweetheart…" her mother began, "… We know how important it is for you to keep up your friendships with inhabitants of such elegant countries, such as the United Kingdom, Italy, and so on…"

"… _But_," her father put in, "there are better ways of… developing the conversations… besides the telephone."

The world around Rhonda stopped abruptly. Her eyes propelled immediately to the opened envelope on the table. Something in that fancy head went click in a horrible way.

_Oh, shoot_, she thought.

"Princess, we comprehend your great interest for such interesting cultures, but… we are sorry to tell you your phone expenses are…"

"… quite big," her mother ended the sentence.

Rhonda tried to survive the new silence, but failed.

"Uhm," she cleared her throat, "… May I… see that bill?"

Her father nodded and carefully handed the bill. Rhonda closed her eyes and put the bill in front of them.

She opened her eyes.

Her world shattered in a million pieces.

–**o–o–o–**

"It's not my fault Arnold moved to Central America!" Helga protested.

"I will not pay this bill!" Bob roared.

The Pataki's phone bill had left a hole in Bob's wallet. It wasn't the first time. The bill has grown since Arnold's departure, and the problem was every new month it was bigger. Helga always said she wouldn't do it again, but the truth was she needed to talk to Arnold.

No… it wasn't the first time that bill arrived at the Pataki house… But this time, Big Bob was going to make sure it was the last one.

"Listen, young lady, I don't want you to spend that much again!"

"I'll be careful, I promise!" Helga conceded.

"You _always_ say that, and you _always_ spend more! That's it! _No more phone for you_!"

Helga was about to reply, but the words got lost inside her throat.

"Wh… Wh… _What_?"

"What you heard. You've spent too much already. I will not pay this much only so you can waste your time with that Alfred guy!"

Helga didn't know what to say next. Luckily, it was Miriam the one who spoke.

"And why not have her pay it?" she said. Both of the remaining gazes landed on her.

"_She'll_ pay it?" said Bob.

"_I'll_ pay it?" said Helga.

"Yes," Miriam replied, drinking a bit more of coffee. It was much better coffee now that it didn't have brandy. She had improved a lot since the A.A. meetings.

Father and daughter exchanged a stare that couldn't be defined in one look. It was as if a challenge had been thrown and now one of them had to seal it. Helga spoke.

"That means I could speak to Arnold, as long as I can pay the bill?"

Bob considered it, just not long enough.

"Uhm… I don't see why not," he grunted. "But you'll have to find a job for that, and I'm not gonna do it for you. Not a bad idea, actually. I believe it's time for you to learn the worth of a dollar."

Helga also considered it, taking more time to think than her father. If she worked, she could talk to Arnold. If she didn't work, she couldn't talk to Arnold.

It was quite simple, really.

"Okay, Bob," she smiled, "next one's on me."

–**o–o–o–**

"This can't be mine!" Rhonda cried, pacing nervously from one end of the dinning room to the other one, watching with popped eyes the telephone bill in her hands.

"We are truly sorry, sweetheart, but it's all there," her father said. "The calls to London, Paris, New York…"

"No, no, _no_!" she denied. "It can't be; I don't talk that much!"

"It's not how long you talk," her mother tried to calm her down. "The problem is where you talk to."

"Indeed," her father nodded, "if all those calls would have been locals, the bill would be nothing."

Rhonda checked the whole list once again. She couldn't believe it, she really couldn't.

"Are you sure this is not a mistake?" she said at last, wildly turning at her parents. "Are you sure this aren't the phone calls of some other person? I mean, this is the first month you receive a bill like this… … … I-Isn't it?"

Her parents shifted uneasily for a bit, before saying: "As a matter of fact, this is the third one."

"The… thi… t-thi… … …!"

Rhonda had to grab the table to avoid falling flat on her back. All the blood in her body seemed to have vanished, leaving her with pale skin. Her parents hurried to aid her, helping the girl to sit on the nearest chair.

"Oh my God… Oh my God… Father, Mother, I am so sorry…"

"Sweetie, it's perhaps our fault. We should have told you the first month."

"But, we can afford this… can't we?"

"Yes, of course," her mother nodded. "But the reason of this conversation is meant to be focused on some other topic."

"Which one?" asked Rhonda, fearing the possible answer.

"Princess, you know we only want the best for you, but we are a little bit worried about your… let's call it _'incapacity for considering costs'_."

Rhonda blinked.

"What we are trying to say," said her mother, "is that it is time you begin to comprehend the true worth of a dollar."

Rhonda blinked, only harder.

"Your mother and I have decided it wouldn't hurt you to have a… responsibility, honey."

Rhonda blinked so hard her eyelashes pinched her eyelids.

"A… responsibility?" she said with the little air remaining in her lungs.

"We believe it'd be very good for you," her father hurried to explain. "You can learn a lot from this experience: to earn something on your own merit, to pay your own expenses, to budget your own money…"

Rhonda pinched her arm. She became even more unnerved when the action proved she wasn't having a nightmare.

"… and so we have decided," her father resumed," the continuity of your telephonic communications will be your responsibility. From this moment on, all that you spend on the phone will be paid with your money."

Rhonda fought hard not to panic. Let's see, she told to herself, I have to pay my own telephone bill. Dangit, _dangit_, this is not good. Uhm… Let's see… let's see… If I measure the time I talk, then I could afford it. I have money in my bank account. I can use it. I also have a credit card. Good. _Very_ good. I just have to pay my telephone bill. I can do this.

"I accept," she said, making a colossal effort not to faint.

"Good. Just something else," said her father: "you won't be allowed to use the money in your bank account to pay the phone. Neither your credit card."

Rhonda tried to scream, but she didn't have enough air for that. She coughed a bit and then managed to say:

"And how I am supposed to get the money?"

There was a long pause, until her mother said:

"We were thinking you… you could find a job."

After ten seconds of absolute silence, Rhonda Wellington Lloyd fell faint.

–**o–**

(To Be Continued…)


	2. The meeting of two powers

–**o–**

**Chapter 2  
The meeting of two powers**

Helga lay on her bed, thinking. What a way to begin the morning. She was now responsible for every future phone call to her beloved, and she had to find a way to get the money somehow.

She needed help. A skilled mind.

Her hand shot to the nightstand, grabbed up the telephone and made to dial a number. She froze.

_Dang it_, she thought, _it isn't even half an hour since Bob forbade me from using the phone and I am already doing it again._

She dropped the telephone back on its place and stood up. She'd talk with Phoebe face to face.

–**o–o–o–**

Rhonda was also remaining in bed, looking ill. She was pale, her eyes swollen; she was staring at the canopy of her luxurious bed and seemed ready to start bawling again. Her parents were on either side of the bed. Her mother, sitting on a chair, had taken her daughter's hand and patted it in deep compassion.

"We know it's not a nice outlook, but we'd really want you to try it, sweetheart", her mother told her.

"You will experience the satisfaction of earning your very own money", her father encouraged. "I started like that."

Rhonda didn't react.

"And speaking of earning money, we must go to work", her father said, checking his golden Rolex.

"Will you be alright, princess?" her mother asked.

Rhonda managed to nod once. Her mother kissed her on the forehead.

"We trust you, sweetie. We'll be back for lunch."

Rhonda, her eyes stuck on the ceiling, didn't see her parents go away. She had only heard the footsteps walking away and the door closing very softly. She'd been left alone, just like every normal morning.

She loved being alone in the mornings. She always took advantage of those moments to pretend she was the owner and mistress of the residence and, especially, of the telephone. The morning was the best time of all for speaking with her friends in London, due to the time swap with that country.

Now, however, she felt absolutely unable to do any of her morning routine.

She was thinking. _Why_ had that happened? What _crime_ had she committed to being punished in such a way? Where was Justice? It all had turned a complete disaster, and she was aware things wouldn't get better the next day. She knew her parents and so she understood they were compliant toward her, but very firm on their decisions at the same time.

Rhonda grabbed one of her expensive eiderdown pillows and attempted to asphyxiate herself with it. Seconds later, she changed her mind and tossed it aside, feeling quite childish and immature.

What kind of job would she have to take? The options drifted through her head very slowly, as for giving her mind time to get used to them. Let's see... Jobs available for the most fantastic girl on Earth... Uhm...

_Stock Broker_? Interesting option. Her parents became rich that way. But then she recalled they didn't really work on it but they had their papers bought and sold by third–party people. And she didn't really cope with the idea of going herself to the Stock Market. Once, some time ago, she had gone there, and all the thrill of so many people running from here to there and screaming loudly was sickening. No, it wasn't an interesting option at all.

Let's see... What else?

_Journalist_? Rhonda had always had the vague dream of becoming a journalist for the show business set. She could travel to fantastic seaside cities during summer and interview the thespians. She'd be surrounded by all the glamour of the Stars; and if she managed to be really good at it, she'd even be sent to cover events far from the country's limits, straight to those places she could no longer phone. The problem was that she wasn't quite sure her seventeen years would allow her to get that kind of job.

Rhonda considered attempting to asphyxiate herself again with the pillow, but chose to put the idea aside while she thought on other options.

_Hmmmmmm_...

_Model_? That would be okay... No, that would be _cool_. Modeling. Walking on the stage dressed in the very best of the best in the world of fashion. Being photographed for the front covers of the most sophisticated magazines ever. She knew there were young models, even younger that she was. She could do it, and the salary of a model would be more than enough for her expenses.

_Model_...

Without really thinking what she was doing, Rhonda began to smile. She leapt out of bed and searched over for all her latest publications referring to the world of fashion. In some of them there were ads requesting new faces. Yes, that'd be really cool. She would earn her own money and, at the same time, she'd conquer the utmost Personal Glory of every teenager girl of her kind: _To Be Popular_.

She found the ad she was looking for. There were aspirants between sixteen and nineteen needed for a summer suits modeling test. Rhonda smiled uncontrollably: she had between sixteen and nineteen. She ripped the ad and hurried to dial to the agency.

She hung up immediately. Guilt did not visit Rhonda as frequently as it should have, but that overgrown number at the end of the phone bill had built a disgusting feeling of having done bad. And she was just about to use the phone again.

Rhonda observed the ad. The address of the model agency was right there.

What the heck, she thought. I could do with a little walking.

–**o–o–o–**

If Helga would ever have to compare Phoebe with Arnold she wouldn't doubt admitting both had the most extravagant and interesting bedrooms from the whole group. Arnold had in his a wide collection of technology junk; unseen at first sight, but if you stared closely you would have noticed his secret sofa, his Hi–Fi music center, his reel lights, the amazing sight of the ceiling window and several other minor details which were impossible to ignore, like his mythical potato clock and the water dispenser with little fish on it.

Phoebe, on the other hand, hadn't gathered technology in the years that passed. Her tastes came from that quarter of oriental heritage living deep within her. Walking into Phoebe's room would have required an international visa and updated passport. Helga was convinced her friend had some yen, somewhere.

There, sitting at the little and low tea table in the center of the room, Phoebe heard Helga's explanations while sipping from her glass of milk and nibbling on chocolate–sprinkled cookies.

"... and now the ogre wants me to pay the phone bills. Well, actually, I wouldn't mind. Whatever it takes to talk to Arnold, you understand." Helga paused to drink her milk and eat her cookies. "The thing is, I don't know what to do. What kind of job can I possibly do?"

Phoebe meditated on it. Knowing Helga as she knew her, there weren't many jobs she would like to be working at. Helga was a free, creative soul; not a piece of office material caged in a cubicle with a computer and choking schedules.

"Well..." she slowly said, "... it won't be easy to find a job for you, but I'm sure you'll find something. What do you like to do?"

"Uhm... Writing poems and beating annoying people out of their senses."

"Quite a contrast," Phoebe nodded. "Let's focus on the first one: the poems. Have you ever thought on publishing?"

Helga remained silent. Yes, every now and then she had a need to publish a book, but she wasn't sure if she really wanted to do it or not. Olga had published some texts, and Helga suspected her wishes of publishing her own material were based on wanting to shadow her bigger sister.

_Publishing her poems_...

"No," she said at last. "Let's suppose I'll be publishing: I'm gonna need money for that, and money is precisely what I am looking for in the first place."

"You don't always need money," Phoebe explained. "If you send your poems to an editorial, and if the editorial gets interested on them, they could publish the book by charging a small percentage of the cover price."

"Uh–huh, and you suppose they'll accept my poems?" asked Helga, skeptically.

"I am not informed on inner movements in editorials, but I do know your poems are very deep. I'm convinced they'd love them."

"Well, that solves it all, then," Helga smiled. "I'll send a copy of my texts to those morons and then I wait for the publishing. How long can that take? Two weeks? Three?"

Phoebe hesitated, but she couldn't hide it from her.

"Er... weeeellllll... I believe it could delay around... five or six... months."

"_Months_!"

"And that only if they like what they read," Phoebe finished in low voice.

"I can't wait _months_! Phoebe, I need the money _now_."

Phoebe kept her head lowered, distractedly staring at her milk glass.

"How about robbing a bank?" she suggested, aware her joke had missed the point.

Helga was just about to reply nastily but thought better on it. After all, it'd be quite easy to rob a bank. You just had to crash in with a tissue covering your face, threaten the cashier with a toy gun, snatch the money, get out the building...

... dodge the rain of bullets...

"Forget it," she said.

"I'm sorry, Helga. I cannot give you much advice...though you don't really need it."

"Why not, may I ask?"

"Because you already have it," Phoebe said, recalling a very important thing Helga was not conscious of. "You have it in your own house, in your sister's bedroom."

Helga blinked and listened to Phoebe's explanations. She wished to hit herself with the kitchen's sink for having forgotten it.

–**o–o–o–**

The astonishing building of _Molten Models_ rose into the sky until Rhonda's neck was nearly on the verge of pain. There it was the dream of every cool girl: walking in through the doors of Molten Models and walk out transformed into a new Stage Goddess.

Rhonda returned her sight to the famous doors. She squeezed the already wrinkled magazine ad and advanced confidently through the entrance.

The Lobby was splendid. Very wide, quite ornamented, sparkling clean. For one brief instant Rhonda had the feeling of being unwelcome in such a beautiful place, but she breathed and her ego emerged again. She walked to the counter on the other end of the room, glancing at the different portraits on the walls, all of them showing the most remembered models who'd passed through Molten Models.

Rhonda smiled. She imagined her own portrait among those other ones.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Heavily returning to reality, Rhonda found herself at the counter, in front of a young secretary on the other side of the furniture.

"Uhm, ah... I've came for the ad," she explained, showing up the magazine ad.

The secretary took the piece of paper with a delicate hand movement, as if the idea of having contact with Rhonda Wellington Lloyd would be repugnant. Rhonda immediately placed that woman in her recent list of the people she'd have revenge on as soon as she became famous.

"Oh, another one," muttered the secretary as she returned the ad to Rhonda. "West wing, twenty–fourth floor, office fourteen. Use the elevators over there."

Rhonda felt confused, but was not stepping back because of a stupid and arrogant secretary attempting to obstruct her direct path to Fame and Glory. She thanked her for the information and went toward the elevators.

Exactly one second after before the elevator doors closed, a thought darted through Rhonda's mind like an incendiary arrow: What did she mean _'another one'_?

–**o–o–o–**

Helga had returned home and was currently taking advantage of the absence of her parents by sneaking into Olga's bedroom. There wasn't much to sneak about, really; the package had always stood in the same place.

It was on a shelf. It was small and plain, like a thin chocolate box. It was wrapped with little red heart–patterned gift paper and a beautiful pink bow. It included a card with hand–painted Christmas drawings, where the message _'Merry Christmas, baby sis_' could be read.

Helga had decided not to open that present and give it back to Olga. It'd been six months since it was there, abandoned. Olga didn't sleep in that bedroom anymore except when she came to visit the family, and since she now owned a life of her own it wasn't a frequent happening. She returned home for the holidays, or for very important events, and Helga was particularly happy for that.

She wasn't sure of the reasons for which she had returned the gift. That was a big fat lie, because she always knew. She remembered that day; Olga was handing the very same present (save small differences on the wrappings) to every member of the Family, and every single one contained the same thing: her third publication.

Helga rejected hers because she thought Olga was making fun of her and her superiority for having achieved a third book of her masterworks, but there was also the reason it made Olga cry and weep, and Helga had always felt amused by that.

However, Olga always kept Helga's issue in her room, knowing that sooner or later her beloved baby sis would come looking for it. Time past, Helga thought over her dead body would she ever fall that low.

I guess some things have to change...

Helga went back to her own bedroom, locked the door and glared at her Christmas present.

Six months after the holidays, she finally resolved to unwrap it.

–**o–o–o–**

_'Another one'_ meant Rhonda Wellington Lloyd was not the only girl in town with Stage Dreams. Strictly speaking, she was dreamer number one–thousand and sixty–four in a line that kept growing in number after she took her place.

The way to office fourteen was blocked by a long line of girls of every size, every race, every skin color, hair and eye and, above it all, every trick and means to be chosen.

Of course, they all aged between sixteen and nineteen.

Rhonda felt humiliated. That was not the straightest path to Fame and Glory, but she supposed it was better than getting a real job. Besides, the interviews so far only produced losers, which was a relief for Rhonda. The line advanced slowly, but steadily. One smiling girl walked in and after around five or ten minutes the door burst open and the same girl dashed out, crying loudly.

Rhonda saw them, one by one, run past her and vanish in the horizon of the hall. It was a little intimidating.

"Number one–hundred and forty–eight!" announced a voice from inside office fourteen. The aspirant closest to said office's door gave a goofy giggle and walked into the room.

Six minutes and forty–two seconds later (according to Rhonda's practical multifunctional wrist watch) the same aspirant kicked the door open and ran stumbling as far as possible from that place.

Rhonda was beginning to worry. None of the aspirants was selected. That was good, since it meant they could still choose her. And yet...

"Number one–hundred and forty–nine!" claimed the voice.

Rhonda returned her attention to the front and reset her wrist watch's chronometer. Eight minutes and twelve seconds later, the new candidate was running the Mourning Marathon.

–**o–o–o–**

Well, well, well... So _this_ has been written by Olga Pataki... My dear _sister_, thought Helga as she scanned the pages of the book.

Helga had solemnly promised never to read even a sentence written by her older sister. In this moment she was beginning to regret that. The book seemed easy to follow, and it could certainly help her in her new challenge.

Staying like that, laying face–down on her bed, she started to read the prologue of the masterwork. Olga explained something about the personal will of people and how could this be powered to achieve a goal. Not bad, Helga thought.

A loud laugh floated up from the dinning room. It had _'Big Bob Pataki'_ written all over it. Other laughs followed the first one, but Helga couldn't guess whom.

Feeling curious, Helga went downstairs and ran into her father and a couple of men who laughed and were invited to feel at home.

"What are you doing here? Who're they?" asked Helga, a little irked.

Bob realized her presence.

"Oh, ah? _Oh!_ They're the managers of an enterprise interested in beepers," Bob explained. The men nodded and waved at Helga. "And this is my daughter Olga," Bob added.

Helga was ready to retort, but figured that if Bob had called her Olga it was because he was in a good mood. Best not to annoy him.

"We'll check some contracts, here," Bob said, "because those moronic painters haven't finished decorating my office. I told those dorks I needed it ready for today. Well, I guess it's no tip for them, huh, Tim, Paul?"

The men, addressed as Tim and Paul, chuckled along with Bob. Helga had the premonition she wouldn't find enough peace in the house for focusing on her reading at least for a few hours, so she went back to her bedroom, grabbed the book and got the heck outta there. Nobody missed her.

–**o–o–o–**

"Number one–hundred and sixty–four!" the voice announced. Rhonda started, aware of her nervousness. She attempted to avoid looking intimidated and walked in office fourteen.

The inside was sparsely decorated. A small stage was placed at one side, illuminated by a pair of standing spotlights at either side of the small row of folding chairs against the opposite wall. Sitting on the chairs were three people with notepads and inquisitorial gazes.

"Name?" asked the man on the first chair.

"R–Rhonda Wellington Lloyd", she said, clueless.

"Age?"

"Seventeen."

Rhonda observed that the remaining two people, a bald man and a bespectacled woman with disturbing pitch–yellow frames, were whispering behind the man asking questions. The stares they sent to Rhonda were enough clue as for guessing what they were whispering about.

"Very well, please, on the scale."

Rhonda had been caught off–guard.

"Come again?"

"The scale, girl, the scale," spoke the woman while standing up. "We need to know your weight and height and sizes. Come, come..."

Rhonda hesitated, but resolved to move on. She hadn't noticed the scale on the other end of the stage. The woman guided her there. Rhonda felt relieved to see she kept the right weight for someone of her age and height, which was a good sign. The woman wrote the numbers on her notepad and returned to her chair, where she began to whisper with the first man while the bald one stood up and approached Rhonda.

"Good, now on the stage, _pwease_," he spoke in a slightly French accent.

Rhonda gave a critical stare at the stage, as if she had just noticed its existence. Everything was happening so fast...

"Oh, yeah... Yes, sure..."

The girl climbed onstage and had an uncomfortable sensation. Since she was trying to become a model she had dressed in a set of rather thin and comfortable clothes. The tee–shirt was short for the purpose of giving the world a generous view of her stomach, and the beach shorts were trademark. It was too a hot day for wearing anything thicker.

Would these prove good enough for modeling? The question rang in her head like a fire alarm. The woman and the other man were pointing at the notes written on their respective notepads and now they were whispering more secretly.

"Well, don't stay still like that. Let's see how you move, then," the bald man requested.

Rhonda had modeled before, in school plays and auditions, and she didn't find any reason not to do it again, now. She forgot the whispers and made sure to unleash all her charms. After all, she was lasting much longer than anybody else. It was demonstrated on the display of her wrist watch, which announced that time had already passed some long...

... three minutes and fifty seconds.

Of course, inside the mind of a wannabe, things happen much slower than they should.

"Don't distract," the bald man advised. Rhonda made an effort to appear natural; she performed a couple of arm twists she thought very appropriate, then walked in circles on the stage and finished with a suggestive head swing that made her hair fly and her smiley–faced sapphire earrings shine.

Her chronometer showed four minutes and twenty seconds. That couldn't be right.

When Rhonda returned her sight to the front, the bald man had taken his seat and was whispering with the others, leaving her alone on stage. Rhonda wasn't sure what to do next. Should she climb down? No, that'd be bad. Maybe she could model a bit more, but... for who? Nobody was paying attention.

She observed the three persons focusing in a debate of whispers, from time to time pointing at the notes and, sometimes, to Rhonda herself. She had only one thought in mind, and that was she mustn't lose calm. After all, there had merely passed...

... four minutes and fifty seconds? Had perhaps Time slowed down abruptly? Maybe her chronometer wasn't working that well...

"Miss Lloyd?"

Rhonda returned her attention to the front, nervous. The first man went on:

"We have analyzed your performance and your data... And we have decided to _reject_ you."

Rhonda blinked. She peeked at her chronometer. It showed six and a half minutes. Rhonda was just about to swear her wrist watch was making fun of her, but she preferred to play the strong girl play, look up, scowl, and ask:

"And may I know _why_?"

The three persons exchanged a glance. The woman shrugged and intoned one of the answers most given that day.

"You're too fat for a model. Have a nice day."

The line of wannabe models waiting on the hall on floor twenty–four saw aspirant number one–hundred and sixty–four running and weeping from the door of office fourteen to the elevators. If any of them would have been meticulous enough as for looking at her wristwatch, she would have noticed it read eight minutes and two seconds.

–**o–o–o–**

_Oh, the park!_ How many strolls had Arnold and Helga taken there. There was no better place than that for sitting on a bench with a good book on financial self–help written by a family member, so that's what Helga did.

She selected a good spot next to the fountain in the center of the park. Several children were playing around the monument; some had brought toy boats. Helga had a seat and began to read the first chapter.

A sickening bawl filled every corner of the green area, scaring the children, sending the pigeons flying away, and forcing Helga Pataki to slam the book close and yell curses to the nearest deity enjoying her suffering.

"That's it," she said. "Whoever's making that yapping has just made an appointment with the dentist. Without anesthetic!"

The cry came from behind a nearby hedge. There, sitting on a stone bench and with her head low, face covered with both hands, was Rhonda Wellington Lloyd. Helga, sticking her head over the natural wall, exhaled an exasperated sigh.

"This is unbelievable. What's wrong with you, Lloyd?"

Rhonda quit crying only to give Helga one of the most pathetic looks the blond girl had ever witnessed. Even with all her sudden hatred, Helga could not avoid feeling pity.

"Look, I didn't mean to say that. Well, fine, I did, but that doesn't mean I mean it. Maybe yes. Well, never mind..."

Rhonda bent to cry again. Helga rolled her eyes and accepted the fact that she was not going to have peace until she managed to shut her hysterical friend up. She sat next to her and procured to be as delicate as possible for supporting her.

"_Shut it_," she said. That was as delicate as possible.

Seeing there was no answer, Helga clenched teeth and tried again.

"Fine, _okay_... Rhonda, could you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you, _blah, blah, blah,_ so spit it all."

Rhonda held back her weeping and looked again at Helga. She did some painful little gulping noises before opening her mouth and yelling:

"_I'm too fat to be a model!_"

Helga saw her return to her previous position, bent over and resolved to drown in tears. She looked at her friend from feet to head, quite simple in Rhonda's position. Helga kept a serene expression for several seconds, until she couldn't avoid a slight smile and said, "Uh–Huh... Yeah... Hold on a moment... I, uhm, I'll be right back..."

Helga stood up calmly, and with that same calm she walked around the hedge.

Then came such brutally loud laughter Rhonda quit crying, listened in astonishment for several seconds and then, enraged, stood up and glared over the wall, where she saw Helga rolling on the grass and holding her sides.

"_You're not helping me, Pataki!_" she roared.

Helga was laughing so hard, Rhonda approached and dragged her to her feet effortlessly.

"This is serious! I've been insulted by the most prestigious model agency in town!"

"Too fa–hah–hah–hah–t to be a mo–hoh–hoh–del!"

"Quiet!" Rhonda demanded. "I have enough economic problems without allowing a simpleton like you making fun of me!"

Helga quit laughing, not without some effort.

"Hold on, hold on... Timeout, let me see if I understand this... Rhonda Wellington–Lloyd with money problems?"

Rhonda grimaced.

"Kinda."

"There's a God!" Helga raised her voice to the skies. "Last time that happened, we were in fourth grade. Never thought I'd see that miracle again."

"It's not funny! And my family has no money problem. I, on the other hand, have just suffered one of the worst mornings of my life."

"What's wrong, princess? The mirror said Snow White was the prettiest in the kingdom?" Helga laughed, who was enjoying a lot with all of it. It was always better to have someone more miserable than you at hand.

"_No_, my parents said that, from now on, I would have to pay my own phone expenses," said Rhonda, turning her back on Helga and kicking as many pebbles as her feet could reach.

"You too?" asked Helga, and her tone had turned serious.

Rhonda looked over her shoulder. "What do you mean _'you too'_?"

"I mean my father also removed my usage of the phone. It must be an epidemic or something..."

"What, they also told you to find a job?"

"_Oh_, so I wasn't the only one, huh? Very well, cards on the table: I need to find a job to pay my phone calls to Central America, so I can keep talking to Arnold."

Rhonda looked aside and sighed.

"I need to get money to pay my phone calls to several countries of the world," she admitted. "My parents warned me I wouldn't be allowed to use the money in my bank account, so I must get a job."

"In a model agency?"

"That's status for you, Helga. _Status_. A girl of my social status can't pretend less."

"Not what my sister says."

Rhonda laughed darkly. "Since when do you pay attention to your sister?"

"Since she wrote this book," Helga replied.

Rhonda stared at the volume her friend had just shown in her hands. It was a thin book with a portrait of Olga Pataki on the front cover. She was dressed as Justice, but on the scales hanging from her hand there were two dollar symbols in delicate balance.

_The Safe Road to Economical Independence_, read the title.

"Oh, yeah, I've heard of this," said Rhonda. "Released soon after Christmas, right?"

"Yes. This little book contains many hints and tips to get money," Helga explained.

"What, it tells how to rob a bank?"

It was the second time somebody suggested the same idea. Helga was beginning to considerate it.

"_No_," she said. "How to obtain money the honest way. Look at this, one of the first bits of advice," Helga opened her issue and read the first page: "_Don't Panic._"

"Hah, that's several hours late," Rhonda muttered.

Helga ignored her and went on: "_Don't Panic. A tranquil mind can detect more chances of money than a perturbed one. First of all, visualize your general situation and ask yourself how urgent is the money you need. Most of the time the amount needed is less than what one first thinks, and the situation in general is less complicated._"

Rhonda distractedly nodded.

"Not bad," she admitted.

"I've already thought on this," Helga announced. "My family situation is good, and I only need money for my personal calls. No urgent money for speaking of, if we put aside it's my little love the one I'm trying to contact. So, taking in mind the average salary for a girl of my age, I can earn what I need with less effort and worries."

Rhonda looked away and seemed interested in the fountain at the other side of the hedge.

"How'bout you, princess?"

"Mphf... Well... I..." Rhonda sighed. "Same as you. My family is fine; I just need money for my own phone calls. Funny, two girls with different styles have the same exact problem."

"Yes, yes, whatever," murmured Helga. "Well, then, good luck, Rhonda Lloyd. I'm going to find a job."

Rhonda turned in time to see Helga walk away. She hesitated a couple of seconds and, at last, went after her.

"Helga, wait!"

Helga stopped, rolling her eyes in clear sign of tolerance.

"I was thinking... Can I join you? I don't know what job I can look for."

Helga gave her a true glance of incredulity. Certainly, for those who are born with a silver spoon, the slivers on the wooden one will take them unaware. Such was the case of Rhonda Wellington–Lloyd, who had the habit of becoming totally vulnerable whenever her heap of money seemed attacked.

Checking Olga's book yet again, Helga found a specific section for this case:

"_Teamwork_," she said aloud: "_The adventure of economical independence can be carried on in a nicer way by being aided by a selected group of friends in search of the same goal. Teamwork suggests an organized environment of mutual cooperation between team members, forming a solid working group which will quite probably reach the top of their ambitions._"

Helga snapped the book close, sighed and sent a curse to the heavens.

"Fine, princess. We're together in this."

"Thanks, Helga... You sure are a good friend when you decide to be."

"Yeah, yeah, don't spread it around... After all, I'll find it amusing to see you working."

Helga stared at the book cover. She meditated on the words written there. Then she pulled out a black marker from her pocket and scratched down the word _Economical_ several times, scribbling _Telephonic_ over the black blot.

"_The Safe Road to Telephonic Independence_," Rhonda read, nodding. "I like it. It fits us."

"Whatever... Let's go. With the instructions in this book, nothing will stop us."

The friends began to walk, heading together to whatever Fate had waiting for them.

"Helga?"

"Mmm?"

"And what if we fail, despite the book?"

"_Oh_, in that case I'll just blame Olga. I always enjoy making her cry."

Rhonda just shook her head as answer. The girls turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

–**o–**

**(To Be Continued...) **


End file.
